


Something Squirrelly

by justadreamfox, likearecord



Series: Not a Fucking Squirrel [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (but not for long), Gen, M/M, andrew makes a new friend, content warning: drake, justadreamfox and likearecord unsupervised, neil is a sugar glider, reference to attempted and past abuse, shapeshifter AU, this is the start of something beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27459820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/pseuds/justadreamfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecord/pseuds/likearecord
Summary: “Am I dreaming?” Andrew asked. He whispered it even quieter this time, not wanting his breath to disturb the squirrel.The squirrel’s head cocked left, and then right. It chirped, each trill musical and blending into the next, but none of it coalesced into language for Andrew. Finally, the squirrel sighed--okay, the squirrel didn’t really sigh, because it was a squirrel, but there was something like surrender in the way it dropped its hand from Andrew’s nose, tugged Andrew’s thumb up, and then bit him firmly.Or, Andrew makes a friend.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Not a Fucking Squirrel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006251
Comments: 24
Kudos: 386





	Something Squirrelly

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. It has been a BIT OF A WEEK. 
> 
> How did we make it through? By headcannoning Neil the Shapeshifting Sugar Glider.
> 
> You're welcome. 
> 
> Expect sporadic oneshots to appear when you most need them.
> 
> -xoxo  
> [likearecord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecord/) and [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/)

Andrew discovered that the entire world was a lie on an unseasonably warm night in January. 

He’d already known about some of the world’s lies. Family. Safety. Honesty. Trust. Meritocracy. Maybe the truth of the matter was that Andrew believed he’d already learned about all of the dark corners of humanity, all the types of monsters people could be, all the ways someone could change on you in the space of an instant. He’d recognized it in his new foster brother immediately. When Drake had come to his room the first night, there hadn’t even been a need for a transformation. Andrew had already seen Drake’s monstrous potential. The grotesque, twisted shape he would take in the dark of night had been evident to Andrew from the first time they’d laid eyes on each other.

So, Andrew was unaccustomed to surprise. 

Or, maybe, that’s not fair. Even if he could be surprised, even if he _liked_ to be surprised, even if he delightedly sought surprise around every corner, surely no one would fault him for falling out of bed when the tiny bundle of fur he’d befriended in the park earlier stirred, awoke, chirped viciously, and transformed rapidly and frighteningly into a pale, naked boy about Andrew’s age. 

“You sick _fuck_ _,”_ the boy shrieked, launching himself over the space Andrew used to occupy and right at Drake. 

Andrew was used to time moving differently in his bedroom. He was used to the way visitors sucked the air out of the room, stifling the clock until its hands had to be dragged through their motions. This time, though, every time Andrew blinked he felt like he’d missed five minutes. He saw the boy throw himself at Drake, saw Drake’s surprise, his defensive hunching over his open zipper, and saw the way Drake’s head snapped to the side at the force of the boy’s vicious slap. 

Blink.

Drake was off the bed, scrambling backwards, the hems of his jeans dragging.

Blink.

The shrieking boy kicked at Drake as he tried to crab-walk out of the room, rolling over to crawl only to have the boy land kicks against his ribs, at his knee. 

Blink. 

The boy chased Drake out of the room, punctuating his nasty insults with the weirdest barking noise Andrew had ever heard. 

Blink. 

An aborted scream, the sound of glass breaking, and a series of thuds that made Andrew wince involuntarily, imagining the snap of bone and the bruising of flesh. 

Blink. 

Cass screamed. 

Andrew stayed huddled by the side of his bed, his clothes still intact, his heart pounding, his eyes so wide he thought they might grow too big to fit back into their sockets. He might be dreaming. This might all be some kind of extraordinary revenge dream. Andrew was never going to close his eyes again. 

He kept them open, daring to blink only when his eyes burned too badly not to, until Cass burst into his room and swept him into her arms, sobbing. All Andrew had to offer were dry-eyed pats. Cass said nothing about the other boy. Cass didn’t ask him if he saw what happened. Cass just clutched him, rocked back and forth, and chanted, _"Your brother,”_ over and over and over again. 

Andrew didn’t try to get up, even though he wanted nothing more than to go see the broken thing that used to be Drake. Even though he thought that the image of Drake’s shattered, twisted body would bring him tremendous peace. Even though he thought if he could go and stand there, at the top of the stairs, looking down at that piece of shit with his neck broken and his soft dick out, it would be a moment he could revisit in the future. It would center him. He could close his eyes and imagine himself back at the head of those stairs the way other people might imagine standing at the water’s edge. 

He was still dry-eyed, passively allowing Cass to hold him and be held by him, when the weird little squirrel he’d brought home from the park crept back into his room. It _\--_ _he_ _\--_ skirted the walls, scurrying out of sight under furniture and behind curtains, until Andrew lost sight of him. 

When the cops came, Andrew said nothing. He didn’t answer their questions about why his door was open or about why he and Drake were awake at 2am. The cops looked at Drake’s open jeans, at the dark circles under Andrew’s eyes, at the uncomfortable, stricken look on Cass’s face, and they called the social workers. 

So, either the entire world was a lie, or Andrew was going crazy. The second seemed more plausible. He’d probably hallucinated the boy. The little ball of fur had been a shadow. Maybe the squirrel at the park had bitten him and given him rabies and now he was killing people in some kind of fugue state. Either the world was insane, or Andrew was. 

The social worker wouldn’t wait for him to answer this most important, existential question, though. She appeared, short-tempered and soft-eyed, and stood guard at his bedroom door until he’d changed out of pajamas and into jeans and a hoodie. 

He didn’t pack a bag. She told him not to. Instead, he had to walk away from his bedroom, which had never felt like his, never felt like a place to live so much as it was a place to be stored, with nothing but his second-day jeans, pajama shirt, and the ratty, favorite hoodie he'd work to the park that day. He had no money, no possessions. No keys, no wallet. No suitcases or toys. He didn’t have so much as a receipt in the pocket of his jeans. 

But, when he shoved his hands sullenly into the front pocket of his hoodie, he found that he did have one thing after all--a soft little ball of fur, delicate bones, and velvety, pointy ears. He froze, not wanting to crush the thing or get bitten by the thing or have the thing turn into a boy again inside the pocket of his hoodie, but all the thing did was uncurl its little body and wrap its little arms around Andrew’s fingers. 

So, maybe Andrew wasn’t crazy. Maybe Andrew just had a secret.

Maybe Andrew had the first good secret of his entire life. 

He kept his hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, rubbing blindly and very gently against the patch of soft, silky fur that he figured had to be the little thing’s chest and chin. If he rested his thumb just right, he could feel its thready, impossibly fast pulse thudding against the pad of his finger. It took every ounce of control Andrew had acquired over the ten years of his life not to squeeze too hard. Everything around him was loud and bright and then the social worker closed the door of her Honda, locking him inside, and suddenly everything was quiet and dark. Times like these, Andrew tended to take the stress out on his own body, digging red, tender crescents into the palms of his hands and chewing at his bottom lip until he bled. 

With the squirrel thing still curled up in his hand, though, Andrew couldn’t risk making a fist. He could crush it. 

In the modest privacy of the backseat, Andrew carefully pulled his hand out of his pocket, making sure to keep the little thing cupped safely. He held his hand up to his face so that the creature was only an inch or so from his nose. Its eyes were blue, maybe, but that could have just been the reflection of the flashing lights outside. 

“Hi,” Andrew whispered. 

The squirrel cocked its head at Andrew, its inquisitive eyes gleaming, and then quickly twisted its body until it was right side up. Andrew didn’t know what it was going to do. He knew all the stories about diseases and rabies and vermin, but when the thing had approached him in the park, patiently eaten the potato chips he was given, and then climbed trustingly into Andrew’s hand, well--Andrew didn’t make that kind of connection often. He wasn’t about to pass it up. 

Could squirrels talk? If squirrels could transform into a boy and push abusers down the stairs, was it out of the realm of possibility that they could talk?

The thing stayed perched on Andrew’s hand, its tiny ears twitching curiously, and then it reached out and placed one achingly small paw on the tip of Andrew’s nose. 

“Am I dreaming?” Andrew asked. He whispered it even quieter this time, not wanting his breath to disturb the squirrel. 

The squirrel’s head cocked left, and then right. It chirped, each trill musical and blending into the next, but none of it coalesced into language for Andrew. Finally, the squirrel sighed--okay, the squirrel didn’t really sigh, because it was a squirrel, but there was something like surrender in the way it dropped its hand from Andrew’s nose, tugged Andrew’s thumb up, and then bit him firmly. 

“Fuck,” Andrew said, his arm jerking in surprise. The quick movement unseated the squirrel--it wobbled, then tumbled over the side of Andrew’s hand and fell, making it almost all the way to the carpeted floor before Andrew scooped it up safely. “Sorry. But you bit me. Why did you bite me?”

The answering bark sounded disapproving. Andrew searched his memory. The squirrel hadn’t seemed pissed or agitated. It had been standing there, calmly touching Andrew’s nose, and then Andrew had asked if he was dreaming, and then it had bitten him.

“Oh,” he said, getting it. “Because I asked if I was dreaming? You pinched me. Bit me.”

The little furball re-settled itself in Andrew’s hand and started grooming itself, pointedly ignoring Andrew. Well. He supposed he deserved that. Before he could apologize further, though, the driver’s side door opened, flooding the car with light and obnoxious dinging. Andrew hastily shoved his hand, squirrel and all, back into his hoodie pocket. 

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this,” the social worker said kindly. “We have some concerns about the safety of the home that we’d like to talk to you about, but we wanted to do it somewhere a little more calm.” 

Usually, when they’d move Andrew, they’d have him pack up his meager belongings in a cheap suitcase. But everything he had was still in his bedroom. Would it still be his bedroom tomorrow? Would he stay with Cass? Even if she didn’t somehow blame him for Drake’s death, would she be able to look at him every day and not resent him for the reminder of her son’s sickness? 

All of the uncertainty usually made Andrew want to throw up. He never felt smaller than he did in the back of one of these cars, pinned in place by the stigmata of pity. 

This time, though, when his heart started to race and his stomach started to twist, his impossible new friend looped its tail around Andrew’s wrist and hugged his thumb to its body, rubbing what must be its tiny chin against the ragged edge of Andrew’s thumbnail. 

Whatever the fuck this thing was, it had apparently chosen him. What for, he didn’t know. But it-- _he_ \--had saved Andrew. He had stood up for Andrew, had exposed himself and attacked, had hidden in Andrew’s hoodie to stay close to him. Andrew had decided a long time ago that people mostly weren’t worth the effort it took to appease them. But the thing in his pocket wasn’t people, was it? Or, not entirely people. 

It was a loophole. It was Andrew’s very own loophole.

It was all that kept Andrew from collapsing or withdrawing under the weight of the gentle, concerned questions he spent the next few hours answering. The ones about Cass were the worst. What did Cass know? Had he told her anything? Had she seen anything? Did she ever touch him inappropriately? 

Every question was one Andrew had been refusing to ask himself. Every answer stripped a little bit of her away from him, this mother figure he thought he’d found, that he’d been willing to die to hold onto. Thinking about it before had made him feel too alone--if Cass wasn’t good, if she wasn’t on his side, then he was alone. He was alone. 

But not now. Not even as Andrew answered, quietly, uncomfortably, admitted that he’d asked for a lock on his door, that he’d said he didn’t want to hang out alone with Drake, that he’d rather go with her to work on school holidays than stay home with his “brother,” Andrew was not alone. 

Andrew rubbed the smooth velvet of tiny ears, kept his face straight as tiny teeth nibbled at the pads of his fingers, and staved off the weakness of tears only because the twisting, nuzzling handful in his hoodie pocket. He answered awful questions absently, focused more on questions about whether or not the squirrel thing had actually turned into a boy, whether or not he’d hallucinated it all--the windmill of red hair and pale limbs, the furious shoving that had taken Drake aback, the series of sweet thuds and satisfying crack of his trip down the stairs, the moment in the car where the squirrel thing had seemed to understand him. He answered awful questions with remote, matter-of-fact responses and the sad looks on the faces of the social workers and police didn’t bother him. 

He was not alone. 

He was, in fact, too not alone--so much so that he didn’t get a door between him and other people for hours, not until the questions had passed and they’d shown him to a small room outfitted with a cot-like bed tucked into a corner, a table and chair, and a tiny attached bathroom. 

“We’ll be right here if you need anything,” the social worker assured him. “Just step outside and someone will help you.”

“Does it lock?” Andrew asked. 

Her, “Yes, honey,” echoed the sympathy written all over her face but, for once, that’s not why Andrew wanted the lock. 

“Are there cameras?” 

“Well,” she said, seeming surprised. “Yes, one. In the bedroom. None in that bathroom, of course.” 

Andrew _wasn’t_ surprised. He’d been expecting the camera in the bedroom. He expected the shatter-proof mirror in the bathroom, too. He turned the lock as soon as he got into the bedroom; he thought about pushing furniture in front of it, but probably that would raise some alarms. He locked the bathroom door behind him, too, just in case, and then curved his hand under the thing in his pockets and brought it out, settling it carefully on the counter. Its fur was redder than Andrew had remembered, its eyes a bright blue that seemed incongruous on a rodent. 

It sat up and stared back at him. 

“Well,” Andrew prompted. 

The squirrel thing stretched its body languorously. It reminded Andrew of the magic carpet from _Aladdin_. 

“Are you a person or not?” Andrew asked impatiently. 

The thing rolled its eyes. Or, at least, Andrew thought it rolled its eyes. It was hard to tell without any whites. It chirped, settled back onto its haunches, and then it was a boy. The same boy. The red-headed boy with the brilliant blue eyes. He was naked, sitting on the counter, his hands tucked under his thighs, totally un-self-conscious as he watched Andrew with rapt attention. 

Andrew stared. 

The boy stared back. 

“Fine,” Andrew said, finally. “This is real. You’re a were-squirrel.”

“Sugar glider,” the boy corrected. His voice was scratchy from disuse and accented in a way that Andrew couldn’t quite place. “Squirrels are rodents. I’m a marsupial.” 

“Are you a sugar glider who can turn into a person or a person who can turn into a sugar glider?” Andrew demanded. 

The boy smirked. “That’s a rude thing to say. Very speciesist. You haven’t even asked my name.”

He’d been feeling dulled all night, experiencing pale shadows of grief and anger and fear, but now his irritation bloomed sharp and solid in his chest. This kid was infuriating. He was naked and didn’t seem to care. He was locked in a bathroom with a stranger and didn’t seem to care. He was looking at Andrew not like Andrew was some kind of a victim, but like the boy was _having a great time_ _._ Andrew wanted to hit him. Andrew wanted to insult him. Andrew wanted to step forward and see if it felt as good to be held by him as it had felt holding him. 

_“ Fine_ _,”_ Andrew said again. “What’s your fucking name?” 

The boy’s answering smile was wide and wicked, his eyes crinkling, a dimple pressed into the pale skin of his cheek. “Neil.”

  
  
  



End file.
